Leave Me Alone, Big Brothers! [BL]

Chapter 178: The Day the Sun Went Dark

No one knew how they ended up in the forest near the mansion. Not even Antonio. The shaman Natasha had brought along didn’t explain anything either, but he didn’t seem surprised.

They finally returned to the mansion, and no one spoke. Even when Antonio arrived, he didn’t say a word. He simply made sure they had all returned safely and left afterward.

Meanwhile, at Dante and Natasha’s private residence, the air was unnaturally still.

Dante opened his eyes. He was lying on his bed, the familiar silk sheets beneath him. For a moment, he felt a strange sense of confusion. His mind was still filled with the image of the Giant World—the bright yellow light, the massive flowers, and the happiness.

Then his senses returned to reality. He looked at the ceiling. Suddenly, the happiness he felt disappeared, replaced by a hollow emptiness.

Natasha...

He remembered the feeling of his wife’s hand pushing him away, her eyes filled with desperate, final love.

He turned his head. Natasha was lying next to him.

She looked peaceful. Her skin was pale, and her dark hair was spread across the white pillow like a fan. Dante reached out a hand, his fingers trembling. He touched her cheek.

She was cold. There was no warmth, no pulse, and no rhythmic rise and fall of her chest.

Dante sat up quickly, a sharp cry catching in his throat. He realized then what had happened. In that other world, Natasha knew her time was ending.

She knew her soul was bound to the curse she had worked to break, and soon she would vanish. She didn’t want Dante to be trapped there alone.

She didn’t want him to be lonely. She had used the last of her energy to force his spirit back into his physical body, ensuring he would wake up in the world of the living.

She had saved him.

Dante pulled her lifeless body into his arms. He didn’t scream or wail. He simply held her, pressing his forehead against hers. He stayed that way for hours, even as the sun rose high.

He was a man who had lost his sun, and the world felt suddenly, terrifyingly dark.

***

The death of Natasha Salazar was announced to the public that evening. The official cause was listed as sudden heart failure, a quiet end for a woman who had lived such a complex life.

The funeral took place three days later. It was an event of massive proportions. The Salazar family was one of the most powerful in the country, and hundreds of people came to pay their respects. Business moguls, politicians, and high-ranking members of other influential families filled the garden of the mansion.

The atmosphere was heavy and oppressive. A thick tension hung over the crowd. While the public saw a standard funeral, everyone in the inner circle, the brothers and the extended family, knew the truth.

They knew about the woman’s sacrifice. They understood that Natasha had sacrificed her own life to end a curse that had haunted the Salazar and Visha families for a century.

Nathan and Nael stood together near the casket. Nael was still crying, his eyes red and his face pale. Nathan stood beside him, his hand resting on Nael’s shoulder.

Nathan felt a strange sensation. He looked at the woman in the casket and realized that his anger had nowhere to go now. She was gone, and she had taken the debt with her. And now, he was crying as well.

Alexander stood at the head of the group, his face a perfect mask of professional grief. He greeted the guests and accepted condolences with a steady voice, but his hands were clenched tightly.

Dante was the center of everyone’s attention. He stood by the grave, dressed in a sharp black suit. He was calm and quiet. He didn’t break down or lose his composure, but his eyes were so swollen from a week of private grieving that he looked almost unrecognizable.

He moved like a ghost among the living. When guests approached him, he forced a small, polite smile and thanked them for coming. It was a display of strength that made those around him feel even more uneasy.

He was physically present, but it was clear that a part of him was gone.

***

One week after the funeral, Antonio was sitting in his large study. He was looking through a stack of files when the door opened. He looked up, expecting to see Albert or one of the guards.

Instead, he saw Dante.

Dante was carrying a heavy wooden easel and a large bag filled with paints and brushes. Antonio’s eyes widened in surprise.

"Am I seeing things correctly?" Antonio asked, his voice gravelly. "Or have you finally lost your mind?"

Dante didn’t answer immediately. He walked to the center of the room, found a spot near the large bay window where the light was best, and began setting up his painting equipment. He moved with a slow, deliberate rhythm.

"Well, I’m quite lonely now," Dante said, his voice flat. "It is too peaceful there, so I have decided to stay here."

Antonio stared at his son. For decades, he had tried to force Dante to be a businessman. He had mocked Dante’s love for art and pushed him to take a seat at the head of the company.

He had never shown the slightest respect for Dante’s hobbies.

But as he looked at Dante now—a man hollowed out by grief—Antonio realized he was too old and too tired to fight anymore.

"Leave it there," Antonio said, gesturing toward the easel. "Have a drink with me."

Dante paused, stopping to place his brushes in a box. He looked at his father and nodded. "Well, I can’t drink too much. My stomach isn’t what it used to be."

Antonio let out a short, dry laugh. "Hah! I don’t know whose son you are. You truly are nothing like me."

Antonio walked over to a small bar in the mansion and poured two glasses of expensive scotch. He handed one to Dante, and they sat in two leather armchairs near the fireplace.

"I promised her I would never come back to this place," Dante said, taking a small sip of the amber liquid. "But she always forced me to come see you. Even at the end, she kept reminding me how old you were getting. She didn’t want you to be alone."

Antonio grunted, taking a long drink. "That damn woman."

"She always told me that you loved me," Dante said, staring into his glass. "I told her it was a complete piece of bullshit."

Antonio took a long drag of his cigarette, the smoke curling around his head. "Yeah. Total bullshit."

They sat in silence for a few minutes. The only sound was the crackling of the logs in the fireplace.

"But I think it’s not fair that you live here so peacefully while I’m miserable," Dante said, a small, dark spark of wit returning to his eyes. "So I decided to come here and ruin your peace. I’ll paint in your office every day."

Antonio sighed, but there was no real anger in it. "I’m too old to argue with you, Dante. We’ll just sit here and drink. We both lost our wives. At least we have that in common now."

Dante nodded slowly. "Yeah. You’re right. I hope our wives can be friends up there. I hope Mom shows Natasha where the best gardens are."

"Miranda would like her," Antonio muttered, smiling slightly. "They’re both too loud. They’ll have fun together."

***

Leinster’s house.

Adam sat in his room. On his desk was the painting of the small house, the one Laura had painted. Zane had come to him several times over the past week, telling him a story that sounded like a hallucination.

Zane claimed he had met Laura in a strange, beautiful place. He claimed she looked beautiful and peaceful.

Most importantly, Zane claimed that Laura had left a message for him. He said there was a poem hidden behind the painting.

Adam hadn’t believed him. He had dismissed it as a symptom of Zane’s grief. But the more Zane insisted, the more Adam felt a strange, cold fear in his chest.

He was afraid to believe it. He was afraid that if he opened the painting and found nothing, it would be like losing Laura all over again.

He had kept the painting on his desk for days, staring at it every night.

Finally, he took a deep breath. He couldn’t live with the doubt anymore. He had to know whether Zane was playing a cruel prank or if something impossible had actually happened.

Adam picked up a small tool and began to carefully pry back the wooden tabs that held the canvas in the frame. His hands were shaking so much he almost slipped. He pulled the canvas out and turned it over.

His breath caught in his throat. He felt as if the air had been sucked out of the room.

There, on the back of the raw canvas, was a piece of paper taped to the frame. The handwriting was unmistakable. It was elegant, slightly slanted, and written in the blue ink she always used.

It was Laura’s handwriting.

Adam leaned back in his chair, his heart pounding against his ribs. He couldn’t breathe for a few seconds. He reached out and touched the paper, his vision blurring with tears.

He began to read the poem:

To My Dearest Adam,

Years ago, we were a duo,

A story just beginning to unfold.

But now our days are bright and busy,

With a six-year-old heart of gold.

I see so much of you in him.

The way he laughs, the way he grows,

The kindness in his little spirit,

And the strength that every day he shows.

Between the school runs and the playdates,

And the "Lego" scattered on the floor,

I find a thousand tiny reasons

To love you even more than before.

You’re the rock that holds us steady,

The fun in every single day,

The best partner I could ask for

As we find our family’s way.

Happy Anniversary, my love,

To the life we’ve built, so wild and true.

I’m so lucky to be on this journey

With our boy, and always, with you.

With all my love,

Laura

Adam let out a sob that was half-laugh and half-cry. He pressed the canvas against his chest, closing his eyes.

It was her. He was sure Laura had saved it for their anniversary, and only now was he reading it after all these years.

He sat there for hours, holding the only proof he had that the world was much larger and much stranger than he had ever imagined.

Zane was right. She was out there, and she was still watching him.

He wiped his eyes and looked at the painting again. He felt a strange sense of peace. The weight that had been on his shoulders for years felt slightly lighter. He stood up, walked to the mirror, and ran a hand through his messy hair.

He remembered Laura always complained about it.

"I’ll fix it, Laura," he whispered to the empty room.

"Damn, I need to cut my hair," he muttered.